


wait

by pavaal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Desperation, Established Relationship, M/M, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavaal/pseuds/pavaal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Jake wonders if they should just get a puppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wait

Dirk has this— _thing_ about control. You don't know if you would go so far as to call it a fetish, but there's definitely a certain delight he takes in exercising his power over others. It's cute, if not a bit megalomaniacal at times, too reminiscent of his auto-responder for you if he doesn't rein himself in.

You're pretty good about keeping him in check. He listens to you even though he knows he doesn't have to, and in turn, you indulge his little power games just to keep his sensitive ego from deflating entirely.

You just never thought it would get weird.

He approaches you, casual as he can be, and quite plainly—quite calmly—asks how long you think you could go without pissing. Now, you've spent far too many hours on the internet to not know what he's getting at, and you like to think that with awareness comes a sort of desensitization, but that's perhaps not the case because your brain's immediate response is to flash up images of anime girls clutching their stomachs in the general area of their bladder, tears filling their eyes as they squeeze their legs together and try not to go lest they humiliate themselves in public.

Your hesitation must be obvious, because Dirk—bless his soul—backs off in a way that's only ever obvious to you.

"You're not going to get an infection, Jake," he says, but you know that it's a sort of concession of his own to reassure you that there's no harm to be found in a little kink play. "We'll keep it confined." He makes a loop in the air with his finger, designating the surrounding area of your apartment. "You don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to."

If you don't want to. _Really_. On one hand, having grown up on an island, you don't much have any kind of anxiety toward utterly shaming yourself in the presence of others, because shame was never fostered in you; but on the other hand, you are familiar enough with folkways to know that ruining your shorts at the grocery store would probably earn the both of you an unkind reputation.

You give it a beat of consideration, then: "What would this involve should I agree to your cockamamy whims?"

He barely contains a victorious smirk.

"Let me take care of you today," he says, and reaches out to cradle your face in his hands. "It'll be like any other day, except with a few more drinks, a little more pressure, and the afterparty might involve a Swiffer and a midnight excursion to the laundromat."

"You're disgusting." Still, you grin without an ounce of the shame you never learned to carry, and your cheeks squish up because of the way he's holding you. "Let's do it."

* * *

 

He meant it when he said he was going to take care of you, you quickly discover. Almost immediately after you consent, he jumps into the magical question guaranteed to earn your favor—"Do you want to watch a movie?"

Your taste has become more refined over the years, admittedly; with experience in the real world, you've been able to discern good movies from B movies from bad movies, but on the whole, an improvement of taste doesn't mean anything when your interests were rock bottom "eclectic" in the first place.

The two of you settle on _The Seven Little Foys_ , because you never grew out of your fondness for vintage films. You take your respective places on the couch, your back to the armrest and your legs across Dirk's lap, and as usual, you chitter away while Dirk patiently listens to your meaningless tidbits and funfacts, offering you a drink every time it seems as though you've run out of spit to keep your mouth slick for talking.

"I do love James Cagney," you tell Dirk after the credits roll, and he nods, reaching over to tip the bottle of soda into your mouth. You crane your neck and try not to spill it.

"I'm pretty sure we've got some other Cagney movies in the collection." He recaps the bottle and looks at you, one eyebrow raised in suggestion. "Are you up for a marathon?"

"Hell friggin' yes I am!"

It takes some effort toward repositioning, but you sit up to kiss his cheek, and nigh-instantly feel the first stirrings of need in your bladder. Knowing that you can't go as per the instructions of the game makes it all the more difficult to ignore the fact you kind of want to.

But it's nothing right now. You can hold it! It's almost thrilling, in a way, and you wonder if the rush of self-control is anything like the boner Dirk seems to have for control in others.

He runs his fingers through your hair, and you grab his hand so you can press your lips to his palm because you know he likes that, and he smiles.

"Things are good so far?"

"Just capital, fine sir!"

"Great." He moves your legs off his lap so he can get up and rifle through your extensive repertoire—as a gesture of goodwill, even while his back is turned, you finish off the bottle of orange soda.

You don't know how Dirk can drink so much of this without getting sick. Yuck.

"Could I switch beverages, though? I feel as though I've got a dick of a cavity coming on just by smelling the artificial citrus. No offense."

"None taken." He flips the case of a movie to read the back, checking for actors. "Get whatever you want, darlin'."

By the time you go into the kitchen and return with your dearly beloved bottled water, Dirk already has a few selections lined up and ready to play.

"Are these all Cagney?" you ask, simply making small talk as you adjust yourself. Dirk seems to desire a different postion from the usual this time, however, so you go along with it and let him direct you until you're sitting in his lap and his hands naturally rest on your thighs.

"The best of the best." He eyes the water in your hands. "—I don't want you making yourself sick trying to satisfy my antic desires in the realm of the bed, bath, and beyond. Pace it, babe."

"I am!" To prove a point, you set the bottle aside for now. "Fret not, and start the movie, jackass."

He does.

Soon, about twenty minutes in, after you've really gotten invested in the story you've seen dozens of times, his hands start to move—up from your thighs, past your crotch, only to settle roughly somewhere under your navel. You're confused at first, especially when he starts pushing because you know his grip on anatomy is better than this, but _then_ he goes down, and you realize it was meant to make you pay attention to how much you really need to go.

You squirm. You try to focus on the movie. You even reach for your water bottle and bite the rim, but his fingers are very definitely on your bladder now and it's hard to ignore.

Oh dear.

It can't be comfortable for him to have a young man wriggling around in his lap, but he seems unnaturally absorbed in the television screen. Asshole. You're—ugh—you're doing this for him and he's not even looking at you!

But he is pushing the heel of his palm into the flat expanse of your stomach, pressuring your bladder and moseying his way even further down every now and then to brush your privates through the thick fabric of your shorts.

You exhale, shortly, a noise both irritated and excited.

"I always loved this part," he whispers to you, and he lifts his hand from your skin to the underside of your water bottle, nudging it up to your lips to force you to take a drink.

You really have to pee.

Now that he's sufficiently stimulated you, there is no denying this fact; but this isn't your limit. This is only the beginning.

You curl in on yourself just a bit, squeezing your thighs together. Why did you have to fall in love with someone who gets his jollies from deconstructing everything your grandmother taught you when you were just a small tyke?

For the majority of the movie from here on out, your thoughts flop between how much this experience sucks and how little this film sucks, but even then, your enjoyment fades away by the time the closing scene comes about. You haven't been able to get comfortable for a good thirty minutes now, constantly shifting and tightening your legs while Dirk occasionally nudges you to drink a little more, or pushes his fingers into your sensitivity a few more times, and when he finally gets up to change the tape, you fall face-first into the couch cushions with a loud groan.

"Dirk," you pant. "I can't do this much longer."

There are goosebumps running all down your arm as a sick pleasure twists right up in the core of your belly, and you find that if you concentrate on that pleasure instead of the dull ache, the tingling warmth is—amplified, almost.

You flop and draw your knees up to your chest, accidentally pushing yourself to feel the weight of your held fluid again.

You give up on playing strong and let yourself roll with it, moaning helplessly at your own need.

Dirk's breathing stops. You peer over the barrier of your arm, and—hello there. He really is getting off on this! You were fairly caught up in your own concerns just moments ago, but now that the two of you have officially become separate entities, the bulge is obvious.

You'd find it charming if you had the capacity for coherent thought.

"Two more minutes," he suggests. You feel rather like the anime girls in your memory, because tears are definitely forming at the corner of your eyes oh _god_ do you ever have to go. He's not going to let you get up to go to the bathroom, either, but that's okay because you don't think you could make it anyway.

You sit up and bounce, fidget, anything and everything to calm your terribly needy nerves; you must look like a proper mess, you know, face flushed and hair wild, sweat forming in all these little nooks as you take shallow breaths like a dog to soothe yourself.

" _Dirk,_ " you whine, once more. "Please. I'm through."

He nods. "Okay. Okay, just—go. Do it."

He doesn't even try to be stealthy when he pushes his hand against the lump in his jeans, but that's not what you're focusing on anyway.

Nothing happens the first time you try to let go, and you nearly scream in frustration because you swear you are going to explode if you don't piss yourself right this instant.

"Oh my sweet Christine in the land of milk and honey, _Dirk!_ "

You're calling for him as though he can do something even though reason tells you that he can't, but he goes to you and mashes his lips against yours—it's not the shock, but rather the simple movement of thought that allows you to finally, finally go, and you groan into his mouth as all the tension melts away into what you would rank among the top ten best orgasms you've ever had in your life ever.

Your fingers curl and uncurl into the air, your legs twitch and spasm, and a shudder runs up your spine—it's so warm, and so fucking good that you feel like this should be a staple of every healthy couple's sexual life.

Glory hallelujah, you want to cry.

You drop your head onto his shoulder when the last spurts finish soaking your shorts.

Neither of you say anything for a few moments, and then you speak up from your rapidly-cooling puddle of piss on the couch.

"Again. Next week."


End file.
